


Grapevine

by glacis



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-29
Updated: 2010-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An episodic romance, Bodie and Doyle style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grapevine

_Grapevine, by Sue Castle_

It really was a lousy town. Ray Doyle glanced sideways, caught a glimpse of Bodie's swollen lip, and bit his tongue. Again. Shouldn't have been feeling guilty, he didn't suppose, but as usual, Bodie'd followed his lead, and very nearly gotten his head knocked off for it. Not to mention coming uncomfortably close to taking a header off a cliff into a rock quarry.

He hated bent coppers. One of the reasons he'd left the Met. Still burned him up when he saw authority to protect being misused, twisted around to exploit instead. Bodie had his own reasons for not trusting coppers, and maybe by the time he'd grown old and grey on stake-out with him the clam might open up about them. Doyle wasn't holding his breath. Still and all, if it hadn't been for his one good copper …

"Yeah, mate, you told me so." He shot another look at his partner. Bodie looked rough, but not much rougher than usual after a close call at the end of an op.

"Never did." He didn't think he'd been thinking out loud. Never could tell.

"Only when you breathe," Bodie shot back, and Doyle grinned, relieved to see an answering grin lighten his partner's expression. They were nearly home, bag of evidence in the boot, Jax and Anson bringing up the rear, not that Green would be giving them any trouble. The wind had gone out of the bag in a big way, with the Cow wielding the sharp stick, and Chives and his bully boys would be going away for a good long stretch.

Bodie settled his head against the door and closed his eyes, as Doyle kicked it into gear and headed for home. One report coming right up.

 

HQ was never still, and now, close on ten at night, it was still bustling. Depositing the film in one box, the phone taps in another, Doyle patted the bag until it was inside out to make sure he got it all. He didn't like being cuffed in the back of a megalomaniac's car in the middle of bloody nowhere on a ride to an execution. He liked even less being the one responsible for putting them there. Swinging around to head for the rest room, he noticed that the cut on Bodie's mouth had opened again, leaking a small trail of blood down the side of his chin. Unthinking, he reached up and dabbed at it. Bodie stopped, tilted his head obligingly, and waited for Doyle to clean him up.

"Yeah, no wonder it was so easy for the locals to buy it. Poster couple for the Gay Youth, they are."

"Little long in the tooth for the Youth bit, don't you think?"

"Nah, chicken hawks, they are."

"And just how would you know that? Been in the market for a little tender meat yourself, lately, Mac?"

Anson, wasting no time telling his partner all about Bodie and Doyle's most recent undercover stint, playing it up for all it was worth. MacCabe, with the same level of sophomoric humor, running with it as far as he dared. That was further than usual tonight, as Doyle was completely knackered and Bodie wasn't far behind. Ignoring them, the pair headed the rest of the way into the room, sprawling on the couch, waiting for Cowley to get finished with the minister so they could make their report and finally go home.

"No need, old son, look at the pair of 'em. All over each other, they are," Mac snorted, and Anson made an agreeing noise in his throat. Doyle roused himself enough to open one eye and glare at them, then realized for the first time just how he and Bodie had landed. Bodie was spread across a good two thirds of the couch, with Doyle draped partly on the remaining cushion and partly on top his partner. He considered moving for almost a second, then gave it up as a bad deal. He was too comfortable where he was to pay any attention to a couple prats with more hair than brains.

Speaking of hair, somebody had his mitts in Doyle's. The open eye changed direction and he nearly did himself an injury looking up at his partner. Bodie was absently grooming him, smoothing out his curls. As he watched, wondering if it was worth the effort of thumping him or if he might as well just give in and enjoy it, Doyle saw Bodie's eyes open. There was an unholy gleam in the red-shot blue.

"There, there, old chaps, just because you haven't got yourself a nice golly to play with, doesn't mean you're free to go taking pot shots at mine." The tone was insufferably smug, the expression superior, but there was an edge under the tone that caused both of the other men to back down immediately. Funny, how the biscuit tin should suddenly become so interesting.

A snort of laughter from the doorway caught Doyle's attention, and he opened his other eye, throwing Murphy an inquiring glance. The tall Londoner draped himself in the doorway and regarded the partners camped out on the couch.

"Much as I hate to interrupt your beauty sleep, since you're both in dire need of some, Himself is ready to speak with you now." He grinned at them, and tipped a wink at Doyle's shirt. Usually opened halfway down his chest, recent movement had pulled the material until he was nearly naked. "Might want to button it up, Doyle. Not sure the old man can stand the strain."  
"Good thing the old man didn't hear you," Doyle shot back, leaning upright and holding out an arm for Bodie to balance on as they pulled each other from the soft cushions. "He'd have your arse in a wringer and your head in a vise."

Murphy nodded agreement. "No doubt. But wandering in looking like a ravished rent boy won't put you in good standing, either, mate." Before Doyle could think up a retort, Bodie was already slipping his buttons through the holes. Leaning his chin against a handy shoulder, Doyle let him.

"Nursemaid one another often, do you?" Lucas cracked on his way in the door, ducking around Murphy.

"All the time, aren't I the lucky one," Bodie cracked back, waving a suggestively limp wrist at the other agent. For some reason, tonight, it bothered Doyle, where he usually just shrugged it off. Grabbing hold of his partner's arm, he hauled him out the door and down the hall.

"May as well get this over with," he grumbled, stalking off for Cowley's office, dragging Bodie behind him. It was rather like a terrier towing a mastiff, but Bodie was good natured about it and trailed along.

"What’s wrong with you, Doyle? Just a bit of fun." The words were light, but the accompanying look was searching. Doyle found himself coloring up, not sure why, too tired to want to think about it at the moment.

"Want to get home. Get a bath. Stiff drink. And the phone number of that redhead." Bodie grinned at him, and he shook his head. "You're not going to share after all, are you? Some mate you are."

Bodie whistled as they stepped into Cowley's office. "The kind that keeps his own birds, thank you very much."

Before Doyle could answer, Cowley demanded a report, and that was the end of that conversation.

Six hours, a hot bath, two decent belts of scotch and very little sleep later, it was still on Doyle's mind. It was near five, and he had to be back on duty in less than three hours. But he couldn't get his mind shut down enough to rest. No matter how much his body wanted it.

It had been close, but there had been closer. It had been tense, but he'd been in tighter situations, he and Bodie both, without this strange sort of thrumming along his nerves afterward. Odd flashes of the last few days kept painting themselves with an artist's eye for detail on the back of his eyelids. The skin on Bodie's back as the vigilante coppers ripped his shirt open, pressing him into the wall, preparing to whip him. The dark hair and vivid eyes against the cheap cover as he sniffed about having to share … with a fella. The defiance stretching his features taut as he told the worst of the lot to go to hell; the way he'd come out of the darkness, flanking the men in the car park when they'd attempted to bully him. The length of him sprawled under the thin blanket in the very early morning light coming through the window, pulling a pillow over his head as the damned train whistled through for the third time that night. The smile barely curling his lip as Doyle'd wiped away the blood. The feel of those hands in his hair.

Bloody hell.

He leaned back against the cushions, resting the bottom of the glass on his forehead. Why had it been so easy? The local constabulary had no difficulty whatsoever in believing that he and Bodie were a pair of homosexuals. And the way they'd moved around one another, on the stairs, in the doorway, unloading the car … of course they each knew, by instinct, where the other would be. They were partners. It was just outsiders who'd get the wrong impression, read something there that wasn't. See something between them and think it was something other than what it was.

Doyle looked down at his stirring groin. Well, something other than it was admitted to being, anyway.

He wasn't a complete innocent. Regardless of Bodie's contempt for his experience, he had been on the drugs squad, and it wasn't only female hookers he'd dealt with. And he'd not been the least bit shy in art school. Why should he be? He didn't paint all the time. Classes drew their models from the ranks of their students, and he knew how human physiology worked. He appreciated beauty. In all its forms. And Bodie, while he might joke about it and probably not even believe it, was beautiful. Was only natural he'd respond to that.

Only natural.

Downing the last of his drink, he propped his feet over the end of the couch and closed his eyes, willing himself to go to sleep. And if the last visions playing behind the darkness over his eyes began as old mates in school and mutated into Bodie, he certainly wasn't going to admit it. Even to himself.

 

Bodie curled himself around the pillow and stared at the window, where the first light of morning was beginning to brighten the room. It had been a short, hard night.

Not short enough, and too fucking hard.

His hand clenched, then relaxed as tactile memory kicked in and he could feel Doyle's hair under his fingers. Felt as natural as breathing to have him there. Nothing bad about it, nothing painful. Nothing frightening.

Every time he closed his eyes, he was back in the bush. Helpless, as he'd been helpless that afternoon. Trusting in his partner's naïve faith in one good copper, a fairy tale he'd not put any stock in since he was a kid on the docks in Liverpool. There was us, and them, and them never put a hand out to us unless it was a fist. Pain in his face, hands tied behind him, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he couldn't get out of this one. And he wasn't going alone. Made it all the worse.

Made sense he'd be having nightmares when he finally got to bed.

For the space of a heartbeat, he wished that there was someone beside him. No, not any someone. Doyle. Of course. He was so very good at wishing for the one thing he couldn't have. There was a reason he stopped believing in wishes a long time ago. Wasn't sure, now, if he ever had believed in them.

None of which took his mind off the reason why he was staring at the sun rising too bloody early in the morning when he should have been fast asleep. That would be Krivas. And Dominic. And Jaime. And Macrone. Just names, now. Couldn't hurt him any more. Couldn't hold him down, and make him take what they wanted him to take. Until he'd gotten far enough away that they couldn't reach him any more.

Or killed them.

His head ached, his face tightened with phantom pain mixed with current bruises. His wrists hurt, and his shoulders, from his abortive attempt to escape when they'd been shoved in that twisted bastard's car. Nothing serious, nothing that would slow him down.

Just make him remember.

And want what he couldn't have.

He hauled himself from bed and went to duck his face in cold water. Ignoring the aches, he refused to meet his own eyes as he concentrated on washing up and shaving. There were mornings he didn't want to know himself. Wouldn't be the first time.

Undoubtedly wouldn't be the last.

 

With a little perseverance and a lot of denial, things got back on track. They were as smooth as ever, thinking as one person, moving as two parts of one whole. Cowley took good advantage of their clockwork precision, for the most part, although there was the odd solo job.

They didn't get much odder than this one.

Harry Kendrick had secrets, and George Cowley wanted them. He also had an exploitable weakness, and Ray Doyle fit the description to a 'T'. So Doyle went in, and Bodie watched from a distance, and the boys in the van got a large charge out of the role, until it got quiet, and no one looked at anyone else, and they remembered, as if they had ever forgot, that there were some things they had to do for Queen and Cow that they would just as soon not have bandied about. Didn't even need Bodie's glower to remind them. So they made the tapes, and they listened for the things they needed to know, and they forgot the rest of it as soon as they could. For next time, they might fit the bill, and they would expect the same memory lapse in turn of those who watched them.

Bodie tried to forget, at least. Not that it ever worked the way he planned. The op was a success, of course, because Doyle was the best at what he did, and got the job done. No one camped it up this time, and no one mentioned what they had seen, and heard. But Bodie's dreams took on another dimension, and as was usual, not a word was said between the partners.

 

Ray hated jobs like this one. Yeah, the Cow could say all he wanted about closing his eyes and thinking of England, but it wasn't him with the bleeding prick the size of a Tomahawk missile shoved up his arse. He moaned, half in well-rehearsed enjoyment, half in true discomfort, and reminded himself just how important those plans were. Satiated men slept well, and this particular one talked in his sleep.

Now, if he'd only get on with it. He was taking fucking forever.

A sharp slap to his left flank reminded him that he was supposed to be a willing if not eager participant in this little charade, and he bucked back up against the man blanketing him. He'd laid birds for the job, and he'd laid fellas, and neither of them meant a damned thing more than getting the job done. But for some reason he was having a very hard time forgetting that Bodie was in the surveillance van tonight.

At the thought of his partner, an atypical metamorphosis took place. The wriggling smoothed out, became a sinuous dance. Sweat broke out over his body as his skin warmed, and his eyes slid closed. His hands slipped out across the sheet, kneading the soft material. A shiver ran along his spine as unaccustomed heat pooled low in his abdomen, and he found himself writhing on the cock impaling him. The sounds were coming more naturally now, and he bit his lip before he slipped and called his partner's name.

Kendrick was a little bigger than Bodie, and a blond with green eyes, nothing like his partner. But in the half dark, with his head buried in the pillow and every nerve in his body concentrating on the slow steady fucking he was getting, it suddenly didn't matter. In his head, it was Bodie draped over his body, driving into him, over and over. The man behind him caught the change and responded to it, his rhythm speeding up jerkily, hands running around Doyle's waist to pull at him. Doyle hadn't had an erection to begin with, but the fantasies weaving through his mind took care of that, and soon he was moving as urgently as Kendrick was. He came with a muffled curse, biting his tongue to keep from screaming Bodie's name, and Kendrick came in response, groaning in his ear like a steam engine. Doyle managed to twist a little as Kendrick collapsed, and got out from under the man's weight.

Seeing the shock of bright hair landing on the pillow next to his head jolted him back to reality, and he breathed deeply, trying to control his heartbeat and concentrate on his job. Sure enough, a little subtle prodding got him a location, and half an hour later, Kendrick snoring away dead to the world, he cracked the safe and found the plans. Clothes on, papers in a satchel he'd ditched for just that purpose, he said a silent goodbye to his latest undercover persona and slipped out into the night.

Handing the plans over to Cowley later that evening, he smiled tightly at the rare words of praise, took the proffered two days off for a 'difficult job done well' and did his best to fuck his way through as much of the female population of the city as he could manage.

It didn't stop the dreams, but at least for a little while longer he could ignore them.

 

Too fucking close. He wasn't a discus thrower, for god's sake, or a wrestler, but thank god he could run faster than Bodie, and adrenaline could do great things when a man's trying to get fifteen pounds of explosive off his best mate before it blows him to bloody bits.

He should have stayed dead longer. How did he know they were going to have a witness? Bloody Germans, always with the details.

Just as well they beat Bodie to a bloody pulp, it slowed him down enough for Doyle to be able to tackle and strip him. Hell of a way to finally straddle the man, in the middle of an airfield, both of 'em fully clothed, gunfire all around 'em, remote controlled bomb very nearly taking the both of them out. It had been too fucking close.

Doyle's thoughts wound around themselves like agitated snakes, hissing through his brain, unsettling him. The op had been a bust practically from the beginning. A German terrorist trying to go straight, getting drawn back into the battle, a grass that had to be forcibly mowed, a fake death in a shootout that was over too soon and seen by too many eyes, an exchange that had ended in three deaths, and nearly five. Bodie, trying to be noble, running off like a fuckin' deer, strapped to a satchel of gelly that nearly blew them both to bits. Yelling at him to get away.

Bloody maniac. As if he would. As if he could.

Two days later, Bodie released from hospital, Doyle stuck in files as punishment for reviving too soon and blowing the op … as if seeing Bodie like that, nearly losing him like that, wasn't punishment enough.

Too fucking close.

The words beat over and over in his head. It had been too close; they were too close. Had to get some distance. Didn't know what would happen if this kept on, and grew any stronger. Couldn't bear that, couldn't handle losing him. Not like that.

Not any way.

Doyle leaned his head against the cool pane of the kitchen window, staring out at his small garden patch. Bodie was reacting to his latest near miss with his usual insouciance, wanting to go to his local, pick up a bird or three, and 'reaffirm life' in as many different positions as his bruised ribs and healing concussion would allow. Doyle just wanted to put his head through a wall. Well, his head, or Bodie's. Either way, he'd feel it. Bodie got beat, Doyle ached. If Bodie died …

Too fucking close.

He had to do something about that.

So he did.

 

She was a classic. Red hair, dark eyes, sparkling laugh. Funny, elegant, well-read, refined. Cool. He needed her. More than she ever would realize. She was his last chance at distance.

"Will you marry me?" He'd looked at rings. In between getting suspended and punching Bodie and screaming at Cowley and fighting his conscience and ignoring his training, he'd picked out a ring. Hadn't bought it, yet, of course, had to see what she'd say. She'd looked at him with those deep, shining eyes, and smiled with her mouth, and he knew she was going to say yes.

Restraining the almost irresistible impulse to put a hand over her lips before she could do it, he forced himself to sit still and smile down at her. "Yes," she breathed. It felt like a noose was tightening round his neck. He kissed her, and her mouth opened under his, and as he licked at her tongue and pressed her against him he knew he would never have to worry about getting too close again.

He had a shield now.

Three days later, the instincts won out, the training demanded action. A drug smuggler, his own personal pet peeve in the criminal world, was taken out of commission. Unfortunately, the guard at the hall was unforgivably lax, and the smuggler's daughter heard everything.

She drew the right conclusions for all the wrong reasons.

Looking after her car as it peeled away, the memory of the pain under the tears in her eyes searing him, he felt the shield crumble. Of course he would never change. Didn't want to, really. But he hadn't been using her. True, he hadn't loved her the way he should have. But he didn't ask her to marry him just so he could bring down a villain.

He'd asked her to marry him so he could deny the fact that he was in love with his partner.

Who was now coming up behind him. Tossing an arm around his shoulder.

"Sod off, Bodie," he growled, trying to turn away. Hiding the despair he felt at the connection between them, disguising it as heartbreak for the woman currently putting as much distance between them as she possibly could.

"C'mon, Ray, let me buy you a drink," Bodie coaxed. The second time he threw the arm around Doyle's shoulders, it stayed there.

Goodbye, Ann. It was a damned good try.  
He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, sighed. Blue eyes stared back at him when he finally opened his eyes again. Frustration, friendship, caring, the deep seated need to fix it glowed out at him, and he swallowed heavily. He wondered if running would be enough sublimation. Flashed on a mental image of Bodie in a sweat-drenched track suit, grinning at him. Okay, maybe not. Karate. Get a nice kick in the goolies, that might help. Or maybe a nice long torture session with Macklin. Yeah. That would do it.

"I'm sorry, mate."

Eh? Oh. Yeah. Ann. Ray shrugged his shoulders, careful not to dislodge the embracing arm, and turned them both toward the local pub. As long as Bodie was buying, he might as well try to drown the feeling. Nice irony to that. And if he was very, very careful and very, very lucky, Bodie would never know the difference.

 

Two weeks of freedom to reflect on the fact that three months of work and, yes, a torture session with Macklin, not to mention one of the highest profile ops ever to blow up in their faces, hadn't lessened the want one damn bit. Doyle stared off into the murky water under the footbridge he was sitting on, soaking up early summer rays and trying to remember what it felt like to relax.

Parsali was safe, the treaty was signed, everything was as it should be. He'd broken it off with Claire, taken to practicing more with a knife since he'd gotten rustier than he liked to be, and written another letter to replace the one currently on file. The will was the easy part. The letters were tough. And if he bought it before his partner did, he wanted something honest left behind.

Leaning his head against the weathered wooden post beside him, turning his face up to the sunlight and shutting his eyes, he gradually let his mind empty. He'd told Bodie he needed some time on his own, and Claire had provided a good excuse, but the truth of the matter was that he needed to rebuild his defenses at least a little. A week in Macklin and Towser's far from tender care, a few too many late night conversations showing a little too much to Bodie and reminding him a little too much of what he was always trying to forget. Or at least ignore. The line was blurry again, only this time it wasn't between the villains and the good guys. It was between the friend and the other half of his soul.

And wouldn't Bodie just do his nut if Doyle ever laid that one on him.

Resigned to a brain that was running around in circles and a gut that was tying itself in knots, Doyle soaked up sunshine and refused to think for the next fortnight.

 

"They're the best you've got, George."

"Proved that yesterday, Brian. You and Towser did a good job, lad. They were fast, faster than I've ever seen them, and spot on. Took out both assassins and their control, with only one friendly casualty. And that wouldn't have been fatal except they used dum-dums. Damn them."

"George. About 4.5 and 3.7." There was an unusual diffidence about the trainer's manner, and Cowley peered intently at him. Hesitancy sat badly on a man like Macklin.

"What is it, Brian? I didn't notice any deficiencies in their performance. Quite the contrary."

"Not their performance, well, not as a team, anyway." Macklin cleared his throat, then met Cowley's eyes. "They were more protective of one another than they were of themselves. If you want them to be effective as solo agents, you'll either need to separate them more often or re-pair them with other partners." Cowley glared a question at him, and he shrugged helplessly. "They think as one, move as one, feel one another's hurts before the one getting hurt does. They're not a partnership anymore, they're one person. Cut Bodie, and Doyle attacks; hurt Doyle, and Bodie snaps. Something to keep in mind, George. The way it stands right now, they're still capable of working on their own; much longer, and if you lose one you'll lose the other."

Cowley nodded appreciation for Macklin's insight, and went on to other subjects. Privately, he wondered if it was not already too late. And if it wasn't better that way; as good as Bodie and Doyle were individually, as a team they were unbeatable. As long as it remained that way, CI5 needed the team. As to losing one or the other of them … they would cross that bridge if they ever came to it.

 

Under the pressure of business as usual, Macklin's warnings faded into the background. Cowley kept close watch, and the team worked as well as ever, if not more so. Doyle stood by and watched as Jimmy Keller betrayed Bodie, and picked up the pieces afterward. Both men survived an Operation Susie that nearly killed them, and Bodie became a reason to stay on the squad when Doyle could no longer bring himself to trust Cowley. In the chaos of everyday life as members of CI5's A Squad, opportunities to talk seldom arose, and when they did, very little was said. The connection grew, as did Doyle's disenchantment, until two young radicals swerved to avoid a porter and blew themselves to kingdom come.

Mayli Kuolo had an agenda. Personal vengeance, a very thin thread in a wide political tapestry, but one woven of solid steel. Her father was dead, and the monster responsible for it had to die. If others benefited from her action, then that was a bonus, but the fire fueling her mission was revenge. And if the slender young man with the charming smile and the old man's soul behind the green eyes would stop her, then she would have to stop him. First.

So she watched. She followed. She took advantage of his distraction, and she lay in wait for him. The first shot was to his heart, and the second should have been to his head. That was what she had learned. Looking down at his body, the muffled sound from below the mass of curls, the one eye staring up at her, she read the pain, and recognized it, and could not pull the trigger. Her hand dipped, and her finger squeezed. More blood flowed to join the steadily gathering pool on the floor.

He had been someone's son. Someone's friend, someone's lover. He would not, now, stop her. But she could not make that final step and put a bullet in his brain. He had been an obstacle, but he was not her enemy.

She would save the death blow for Lin Foh.

 

The girl was dead, and Doyle was going to live. Reason enough to rejoice, in Bodie's view. Not that he'd had anything against the girl, other than the fact that she'd shot Doyle, and for that, the bitch got what was coming to her.

It had been touch and go there for awhile. Too damned close. One under the heart and one in it, died on the operating table, nearly lost him twice in recovery, before he'd gotten past whatever guilt was holding him back and decided to fight for it. Bodie could read his partner even unconscious, or near enough as to make no difference, and that had been what had cracked the riddle. If not for that gaudy junk ring … if not for that one effort, the slightest tracing of a finger in the air. Bodie'd known as clearly as if Doyle had spelled it out for him.

Took weeks to get Doyle back on his feet, and months after that before he was completely up to par. Dying, not to mention open heart surgery, would do that to a fellow. But Ray was game, and he fought harder than Bodie had seen him fight in years. He'd got his second wind, and he was determined to make it back. Bodie wasn't sure why, and didn't delve too deeply -- there were times when he really didn't want to know how Doyle's mind worked. But as he pushed his partner through the exercises, ran him through the streets and the graveyard obstacle courses, nursed him through the aches and pains and bellyaching, he didn't need to know what Doyle was thinking.

He was too busy dealing with what he himself was feeling.

It was too damned close this time. In the car, on the way home from hospital, to a new flat, with better locks and fewer stairs, he'd let some of it out.

"Bloody locks aren't a helluva lot of good if you don't set 'em, mate."

Doyle's grin at escaping hospital disappeared at the pissed off growl coming at him from the driver's seat. Served him right. Fuckin' idiot, letting the bitch in like that.

"Yeah. Know. Stupid." Subdued. Not like his partner at all. Bodie risked a glance sideways, caught the sallow look under the hospital-pale complexion, and changed the subject. After one final shot, of course.

"Yeah. Was. Next time, do better." Nodding shortly at the muttered, "Will. Mother!" he asked cheerfully, "So, what's for dinner?"

"Just got out of hospital, mate!" Doyle protested vigorously, as happy to change the subject as Bodie was. "I'm not cookin'!"

"Okay. Take out it is." Doyle gave him a piteous look. He added in a superior tone, "Always complaining about the grease I eat, and I cook what I eat. Can't have you eating that-"

"Swill." Sotto voce. Also ignored.

"- fresh out of getting your ticker worked on. So. Curry?" He paused, suppressed a grin. "Chinese?" as innocently as possible. Doyle's helpless laugh in response was reward enough.

There wasn't a lot of laughter in the next several months. Some tears, when no one was looking, a lot of sweat, quite a bit of cursing. On the day Macklin tore them both apart again, then put them back together one more time, there was very old scotch from the Cow's private store, a fist punching triumph through the air, and an embrace that Bodie didn't want to release.

The dreams were back.

This time Krivas was nowhere to be found. He'd laid that particular ghost when he'd tracked the son of a bitch down and beaten the shit out of him before throwing him in prison. The power was gone, and so was the pain. Now his dreams were no less wild, but much, much friendlier. Doyle, stretched out underneath him, long and slender, soft skin and hard muscles, willing mouth and wanting eyes, hands all over him, tight and hot around him. Rolling, shifting, those eyes above him now, that mouth taking his, all that lethal speed contained and slowed down to concentrate on him. Lots of concentration. Lots of time. Lots of mornings waking up covered with his own come.

He'd spent a lot of time with Doyle in close to the altogether since his partner'd been shot. Lots of hands on, lots of muscle rubs, lots of pats on the back and the shoulder and the leg and the head. If, or when, his hands lingered, Doyle hadn't complained, just leaned into him like he was soaking up Bodie's strength. Many late evenings sacked out on the couch while he brought Doyle up to speed with what was going on at HQ, and plenty of time to talk.

Too bad he wasn't very good at talking. Not about the stuff that mattered. Not when he could barely articulate it to himself, much less the one it was all centered around. He'd spent his whole life detaching from people and things. He could put everything in his life he valued into one duffel bag, and have room for a spare machine pistol with several boxes of extra shells. He'd learned young, people weren't to be counted on, and the only one he could believe in was himself.

Somewhere along the way, he'd lost that belief. Or maybe just expanded it. Because now there were two in his universe. Ray, whose battles he couldn't fight, and himself, who needed Ray to have a reason to fight his own. The demarcation line for his own personal island had dissolved in spots, Doyle-sized spots, and faced with the real possibility of losing Doyle, he'd discovered that he didn't have the wherewithal inside him to spackle those spots closed.

Hell of a realization to make, at his age. That he needed somebody. That he needed Doyle.

So, being Bodie, the pragmatist despite his calling Doyle that, he did the only thing he could. He looked at the need, recognized it as chronic and unkillable, and did his very best to ensure that his partner would never find out.

 

It had been a long haul back, one Doyle hadn't been sure he'd be able to make. Through it all, when the doubts had plagued him, Bodie had been right beside him. Yelling at him, bracing him, urging him on, challenging him, even, god forbid, cooking for him. He'd come too fucking close to giving up, and had it not been for Bodie, and to a smaller extent Cowley, he would have. Oh, he didn't trust the old man, knew that when it came down to it, Cowley'd sacrifice his mother, if he had one, for the good of CI5. But he could deal with that.

Because he had Bodie. He could, and did, trust Bodie with his life. He'd done so for longer than he could actually remember. Didn't know when it had started, didn't know what had triggered it, just woke up one morning and knew that Bodie was keeping him going when he couldn't keep himself going. He'd loved the bastard forever, felt like, and needed him like he hadn't ever needed anyone else in his life. Before he got sappy enough to embarrass himself even in the privacy of his own thoughts, he turned aside from them. Better not to dwell on the could-have-beens. Better to take what he had and be thankful for it.

The first week back at work was an eye-opener. Bodie hovered, or as near to it as a man his size could, and not a single other agent made a crack or even looked at them sideways. It was the norm, Bodie and Doyle back, joined at the hip as always. The thought brought a twisted little smile to his face. Joined at the hip.

If wishes were horses, he'd win the Derby.

Through another autumn and winter, slogging through December snow turned to soot as soon as it hit the tarmac, taking down double agents, uncovering gaslighting of pretty blondes, marching for women's rights to snag an Eastern assassin, all in an agent's day's work. January dawned cloudy and cold, and yet another foreign diplomat came under CI5 care. Hakim Ojuka was a piece of work, and his pretty wife had a hell of an agenda, but the Colonel survived even if the marriage didn't.

Cowley made the mistake of splitting them, then compounded the error by ordering Bodie not to come to Doyle's rescue. He glared, and he blustered, but it did no good. The partnership was paramount by that point and there wasn't a blessed thing he could do about it.

Stuck in a basement with a South African maniac with a chip on his shoulder, Doyle had plenty of time to think about what would happen to him if somebody -- like, say, Bodie, for example -- didn't take Parker out before he really started in on the fun and games. The ride over to the estate from the hotel had been an eye opener. Parker had groped him pushing him in the car, undressed him with his eyes even while slapping him across the mouth, and paid him a nice little visit while waiting for their pick-up. Watching the medic slather burn ointment over his wrists, Doyle thought back to the conversation and barely suppressed a shudder.

"Hello, hard man." Not him again. Doyle glared up at him.

"Come to play punchbag, have we? What's the matter, no one share their toys with you when you were a kid? Or were you too busy tormenting the cat?" And drowning the fish, he thought, but didn't share it, knowing Parker wouldn't get the joke. Only Bodie would, and Bodie wasn't there.

The hand at his chest made him flinch, but this time it wasn't bunched into a fist. Fingers traced the line of his ribs, along the bruises inflicted earlier that day, then across his collarbone and down to press against a nipple. Staring up with some disbelief at his captor, he was struck by the avaricious light in those pale eyes. Rather like a snake staring at a mouse right before gulping it down. Doyle swallowed.

"Not enough time for the games I like to play," Parker leaned in to whisper against his neck. Before he could react with a head butt, the other hand shot to his groin and squeezed his balls, hard. He couldn't muffle the pained gasp, and Parker reacted by rubbing almost as hard as he squeezed. Doyle wriggled as much as he could, trying to back away, but the canvas covered furniture behind him didn't move. He threw his body to the side as far as he was able and swung his head away, trying to crack the bastard across the jaw. Before he got a good go at it, the hand at his chest came up around his throat. "Fight, by all means," Parker crooned at him, then reached down and bit at his lower lip, drawing blood. Unable to move from the fingers digging into his balls and clamping down round his neck, he sat as passively as possible while Parker licked his mouth thoroughly, lapping away the blood. "Sweet taste for such a tough little man." Another long taste, and he almost bit down, almost chopped the bastard's tongue in half, except for the hold on his balls. Bite now, sing soprano later, and he wasn't quite ready for that yet. So he sat, and he growled, and he took it. Then a voice had called the fucker off, and he'd spit until his mouth went dry trying to get the taste out of his mouth.

Waiting just long enough to make sure he wasn't coming back any time soon, half reassured and half spurred on by the heavy beat of helicopter rotors in the air, he'd fished his lighter from his pocket and nearly broiled himself getting the ropes off. The sheer exhilaration of beating the shit out of his tormentor had almost made up for the whole filthy experience, enough that he was even able to joke with Bodie after it was all over.

But now, staring at the clean white bandages ringing his wrists, patting along the cut on the inside of his lip with the tip of his tongue, he thought about how it could have ended. Would have ended if the timing had been just a little bit off, if Bodie hadn't been quite as quick to be the cowboy. If Parker had gotten the time to play the little games he'd wanted so badly to play.

Closing his eyes, he could see it clearly. Bodie, storming into the basement, too late, himself, half naked, useless and bleeding; Parker, smirking about it all until Bodie'd blow the smirk off his face. Or even worse, for Bodie to come in while it was happening. Parker'd wanted him, wanted to hurt him, got off on it. He knew how far it would have gone given half a chance. He couldn't have let it happen. Couldn't have let Bodie find him like that. There was no way of getting around it anymore. If anyone was going to touch him, it was going to be Bodie.

Eight years of fighting it was all he had in him. He was going to chance his luck tonight, damn the consequences, and come morning, he'd have everything in the world. Or nothing at all.

He couldn't believe it would be the latter. He'd seen too much in his partner's face, too many times. He wasn't quite optimistic enough to think he'd get the former, but he couldn't see any way around it. Too close to the surface, too many things bubbling right under his skin. He couldn't trust his tongue to stay quiet, and something inside him was screaming at him. He could feel Parker's fingers on his skin, smell his breath and taste his mouth. Needed to replace that with something good, something clean.

With Bodie.

"Ready to hop it, mate?"

Who stood in the doorway, half in, half out, one foot pointed toward the door already. He grinned in spite of himself and nodded. "More than. 'Bout time you got here," he added.

"You weren't s'posed to let the cat get him, Angelfish," Bodie reminded him, ushering him out the door and down the hall toward the car park.

"Can't help it if the cat was sleeping with the barracuda, could I?" Doyle demanded, mind only half on the banter.

"Wicked image, that," Bodie agreed, then opened the door for him to get into the car. Doyle stared at it, stared up at Bodie for a moment, then stared back at the car. A small prod in the shoulder brought him out of his thoughts. "Gonna stand there all day or go home? I'm knackered. Would've thought you'd be, too."

Doyle nodded absently, then crawled into the car. The short ride to Doyle's flat was accomplished in silence, with many sidelong glances from Bodie that Doyle refused to acknowledge. He was too busy plotting. As soon as they pulled in and parked, he asked quietly, "Come up for a bit?" Bodie nodded silent agreement.

Up the stairs and through the door, all the locks set and double checked with the thoroughness reinforced by past experience, and Bodie headed straight for the drinks cart. "Scotch?" Doyle shook his head.

"Help yourself, mate." He wandered over and stood by the front window, staring out at dusk settling over the cityscape. Behind him, he heard the clink of bottle against tray, the soft tread as Bodie walked to the couch, then a pause before the settling of weight on cushions. Smiling to himself, he twitched the curtain shut and turned to face his partner.

Bodie was sitting straight up, staring over at him, stuffed into one corner of the couch. Doyle made a circuitous route back to the couch, picking up a lead cast soldier, rearranging him just so, moving the terrarium a half inch, shifting a book further onto the table, flicking a finger over the chain on the door. Bodie's eyes followed him, he could feel them, and he let the sensation feed his confidence, allowing the feeling of control to wash out the acid helplessness he'd felt earlier that day when Parker was manhandling him. By the time he made it to the couch, he was calm. Determined. Settled on his course of action.

Completely turned on.

He wasn't the least surprised to see that Bodie was, too.

Moving closer, he slid onto the cushions beside his partner, plopped his feet up on the table, and shot an inquisitive, come-hither look over his shoulder. Bodie cracked up. Doyle couldn't help but join him. By the time they finished laughing, they were shoulder to shoulder, completely relaxed, and just as aroused as they'd been when it started. But the tension was gone. All that remained was the fit, the unstated understanding they shared. Bodie reached over with one finger and traced the line of dimple curving Doyle's cheek. Doyle turned his head, nipped at the fingertip, then sucked it into his mouth. Laughter disappeared and the blue eyes darkened almost instantly to black.

A very good beginning, indeed.

Then Doyle let go of the finger and moved in for his mouth. Bodie froze for a moment, and Doyle slowed, responding to the lack of motion. Bodie's mouth finally softened under his, and they explored one another with leisurely swipes and nibbles. Bodie kissed almost delicately, sipping at his partner, until Doyle's hunger got the better of both of them. Doyle devoured, nothing the least delicate about it, and it sparked a similar appetite in Bodie. It wasn't until a large hand accidentally clamped around a burnt wrist that Doyle finally broke the kiss, with a pained yelp.

"Sorry, mate," Bodie dropped a little kiss on the bandage, and Doyle batted him on the nose with it.

"Shaddup and take off your clothes," he ordered, diving in and pulling at any loose material he could to help Bodie along. Romantic it wasn't, but it was certainly honest, and he could tell by the leap in the erection against his thigh that it was appreciated.

"Spoil a fella with the sweet talk, why don't ya, Doyle," Bodie grumbled, but his hands were moving even faster than Doyle's, and much more surely. They were shaking slightly less and hadn't recently been crisped with a cigarette lighter.

"Talk?" Doyle asked as if it was a foreign word, something in Swahili he'd never heard. "Later," with a lick at the side of Bodie's neck. "Much," he was answered with a bite to his shoulder, and after that, nothing comprehensible came from either man.

They almost made it to the bedroom before they finally got one another stripped. Seeing the bruises along Doyle's stomach and ribs, Bodie took it gently, or as gently as Doyle would allow. Seeing further bruising along his groin and over his sac, Bodie looked a question up at his partner. Doyle shook his head -- another 'later.' Right now was for other things.

Bodie covered Doyle's body like a blanket, hands moving all over him, legs twining together. Doyle responded in kind, touching and kneading every bit of skin he could reach. The first time their erections rubbed against one another, they froze, and Bodie let loose with a moan that raised every hair on Doyle's neck. Then Doyle slithered down the front of Bodie and held him like he'd been wanting to for years, warmed his hands at Bodie's heat, replaced the taste of blood and fear with salt and need. Bodie moaned again, and Doyle decided then and there that he was going to try to provoke that sound as often as humanly possible for as long as he had the chance.

Then he was swallowing, rolling and rubbing at Bodie's sac, sliding his tongue along the ridged underside of the swollen cock nudging down his throat, mouthing the head, enveloping and releasing in deliberate rhythm. Before long, that moan was nearly continuous, and Doyle was near coming himself just from hearing it. It rose, then broke, and the hands twined in his hair clutched hard as the hips under his hands bucked. He swallowed as fast as he could, nearly choking, fighting not to gag, and kept licking and suckling until Bodie was soft in his mouth, clean and replete.

Doyle raised himself up over his partner, meeting Bodie's dazed eyes with a bright grin. "Right, blue-eyes," he teased, "leaving your duty undone, then?" He nudged Bodie's hip meaningfully with his own leaking erection, and wriggled against the arms still looped loosely around him. Bodie slid one hand up his spine slowly, so slowly he could feel the touch on every single vertebra, then tangled his fingers in Doyle's curls and pulled his head down. As his tongue was lapping at Doyle's chin and lips, along his jaw and down the side of his neck, catching the drops Doyle had missed, the other hand forced its way between their bodies. Wrapping around the shaft trying to drill a hole in his hip, Bodie squeezed and pulled.

It didn't take much, between the tight hard grip and the soft tongue bathing his throat, being so close to the edge already. With a muffled whimper and three frantic thrusts, Doyle came, burying his face in the curve of Bodie's shoulder, melting into him. Doyle protested with as much force as he could when the hand left him, which wasn't much considering his whole body was mush, then quieted when the hand was dangled in front of his mouth to lick clean. He did, tongue tangling with Bodie's, who was doing the same. That, of course, led to more kissing, and the next thing either one of them knew, it was morning.

They'd fallen sound asleep wrapped around one another as tightly as they could get without sharing the same skin. The alarm startled both of them, and Bodie reached out to smack it, colliding mid-swing with Doyle who was doing the same. The odd version of early morning arm wrestling brought them both wide awake, and they blinked at one another with less surprise than might have been expected. Doyle stared at Bodie. Bodie stared back. Then Doyle nodded, and Bodie grinned, the little one that just tipped the edge of his mouth and quirked his eyebrow. Everything was right again, the way it was supposed to be.

Popping the alarm on the way, Bodie peed while Doyle shaved then they traded places. Breakfast was a bun on the way to HQ, so they wouldn't be late for briefing. The morning was just like every other morning of their partnership, except for the kiss by the sink, and the other by the closet, and the last one before they went out the door. The grope as Doyle was swinging up the stairs in front of Bodie was status quo.

Slumped bonelessly in the chair leaning against Bodie's shoulder, staring around at his fellow agents, Doyle wondered if anyone could tell. He felt like he was glowing inside, like there were neon letters over his head, pointing down at him, reading 'BODIE'S'. And he certainly felt like Bodie was wearing a brand of some sort, showing he was Doyle's. But no one said a word, no one treated their closeness as anything out of the ordinary. For all he could tell, the whole squad had probably thought the two of them were lovers for the last five years. All the time the lads were whispering about them, all the camping up they'd done, all the Siamese twins jokes, and here they were, finally true, and nobody even noticed. So much for the grapevine. He shared a glance with Bodie, telling him without words exactly what he was thinking, and Bodie grinned back at him.

Yeah.

Business as usual.

About bloody time, too.

With a shrug that said they'd talk about it later, if they ever needed to, they followed Cowley into his office and were handed a case about a man called Quinn.

_finis_

 

Overheard behind a wall of boxes in the middle of a shootout:

"Remind me to cut down on the swiss rolls, mate."

"More cushion for the pushin', blue-eyes."

"Makes for close quarters, though, don't it?"

"You hear me complainin'? Now shut up and shoot!"


End file.
